Daffy

A funny thing happened on the way to writing this post. I had chosen an entirely different subject, but this afternoon, as I walked from my car to the front door, I noticed some daffodils looking a little ragged - petals that were torn, in spite of being barely open. Did we have a strong wind? No wind. No hail. No frost. I cut a few stems to take into the house. Putting them into a vase, I saw the culprit: a small snail nestled inside the bloom, waiting for darkness to come so she could continue her meal.

Snails have been plentiful this year. They've been especially hard on the citrus, the chard, and, now, apparently, the daffodils. Sometimes they cling to the underside of the compost bin. Over the years, I've become fierce about killing them. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I pluck them from wherever they're hiding and stomp on them. Of course I've found all sorts of ways to rationalize this behavior: there are a zillion more snails where these came from; one has to make decisions about what to save and what to destroy when tending a garden; I'm a meat-eater after all, and etcetera.

These rationalizations have served me well. Until today. I plucked the offending snail out of what was left of the daffodil, and, feeling its very fragile shell and cool, wet body between my fingers, I was suddenly unable to kill it. The power of life and death rested between my thumb and forefinger.

I took the coward's way out and dropped the snail down the sink, hoping it would drown, or slip down the drain and disappear so I wouldn't have to deal with it. A few minutes later, it had emerged and was climbing, hell for leather, up the side of the sink to freedom, or at least away from the abyss of the garbage disposal. I picked it up and held it on my forefinger.

"Listen," I told it. "I don't mind sharing with you but lately you snails have been eating too many daffodils and too much chard." I felt foolish, aware of how preposterous it is to try to reason with a snail. How arrogant. At the same time, I felt a bit less guilty, not quite so murderous, with my silly anthropomorphic mutterings. Then, something unexpected happened: As I spoke, it turned its head looked at me, and reached out its little antennae. It seemed to be listening. Okay, Earth-lover, I said to myself. Now what? I waited. It withdrew its antennae and continued to explore the end of my finger. Then I spoke to it again, and again it looked at me, antennae outstretched. Oh dear.

The snail and I walked outside, me talking, the snail perking up its antennae. I took it into the garden and put it on the leaf of a wild radish, vaguely hoping it would eat something not a daffodil. I knew as I released the snail that I was rushing past my discomfort and had refused an opportunity to prolong the connection to see what would happen if I did so. I had been given a chance to deepen what Stephen Harrod Buhner calls participatory consciousness, and I bolted.

Honestly, what happened was that a snail befriended me, and it doesn't matter whether or not it was intentional, or even whether or not it was real. The result is the same: there was an unexpected connection between us, and I am forever changed. It was one of those encounters made more powerful for being un-sought-after; for stretching the boundaries of what I know, and what I thought I knew. I was challenged to deepen my connection to something I didn't want a deeper connection with. Sounds a bit like our current political landscape.

But connection brings responsibility, or at least an invitation to take responsibility. Connection, after all, is the beginning of a relationship, and positive relationships require ongoing contact. Respect. Dialogue. What might that look like with a snail? Is it even possible for humans and snails to come to some agreement? A plethora of snails is, among other things, an indicator of possible imbalance. Then again, if you're a duck, a snail is a meal. And if you're a snail, well, masses of blooming daffodils are an irresistible banquet.

The assumption is that snails in a garden must be eradicated. But is there a less lopsided relationship available? Tonight I am asking myself why I mind having snail-bites taken out of the chard and the daffodils. After all, there's plenty of chard and daffodils left to enjoy. Those bites were made by a creature that is benign, a creature that seems to have sought a connection. And so I have a choice: when I see those ragged petals and leaves, instead of being annoyed, I can remember the Snail Who Seemed to Listen, and be grateful. Maybe I can even learn to listen in response.